He went back with some comprehension of the barrier he had thought so lightly to remove, with a vow in his soul to be more to each; because of it neither should lose aught for his sake.  He seemed suddenly older, though his face was very tender.

“That which seemeth best to thee, my mother, in the matter of the meeting, Marina would surely do; for it is thou who must guard for us these little matters of custom, which none knoweth better.  But her father—­never have I known one more courtly, nor more proud——­”

“Marco, it is much to ask that we should think of him!”

“Ay, mother, it is much.  Yet if thou knewest him thou wouldst understand.  For Marina is all the world to him, and I would take her from him.  Yet so he loveth her that never hath he said me nay.  Naught hath he asked for her of gold nor jewels, but only this—­that she shall not come unbidden to our home.”

He spoke the last words very low and with an effort, as if they held a prayer.

“And so—?”

“And so, sweet mother, none knoweth half so well as thou how best to greet her whom I long to bring to thee, that she may know and love thee as she doth love her father—­with a great love, very beautiful and tender.”

She looked up as if she would have answered him, but she could not speak.

“More than ever I think I love thee, now that I am grieving thee,” he added after a pause, in a tone so full of comprehension that it smote her.

“Nay, Marco—­nay,” she said, and drew him closer, clasping her hand in his.  But they sat quite silent, while the mother’s love intensified, displacing selfishness.

He raised her hand to his lips with a new reverence.  “In all this have I asked so much of thee I think thou never canst forgive me, madre mia, until—­until thou knowest Marina!”

She touched his hair with her beautiful white hand caressingly, as she had often done when he was a little child; but now, in this sudden deepening of her nature, with a new yearning.

“Marco, when thou wert a babe,” she said, “there was little I would not give for thine asking.  And now, when my soul is bound up in thine, I seem not to care for the things I once sought for thee—­but more for happiness and love.  Yet, if I go with thee—­I seem to know thou wilt not change to me—?” She paused, wistfully.

“Save but to prove a truer knight!” he cried radiantly.  “So more than gracious hast thou been!”

“Nay, it will be sweet to have part in thy happiness,” she cried bravely.  “To-night, at sunset, will I go with thee, quite simply, in thy gondola, to bid my daughter welcome—­as our custom is.  I will not fail in honor to my Marco’s bride!  And since it is love that her father asketh, I will give her this rose, for thy dear sake.  But the bridal must be soon, to make this endless talking cease.  And before we leave her—­for she will learn to love me, Marco mio, and she will not take thee from me?—­I will give her the token that is fitting for a daughter of our house.”